


Is It Hot In Here?

by soncnica



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of a Case, Awkwardness, Brothers, Comforting Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester Hates Witches, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Blood, Poisoned Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Sweaty Dean Winchester, Witches, earlier seasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:07:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23836624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soncnica/pseuds/soncnica
Summary: Dean's got a poisonous thorn stuck somewhere in his body ... Sam will have to heat up the knife.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 21





	1. Define The Problem

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: I own nothing and I'm sorry for any grammar/spelling mistakes you might find.  
> Story 1st written -> Jan 19, 2011

"Is it hot in here?"

Three quick steps from the front door to the kitchen counter; barely avoiding a chair, his hands gripping the collar of his T-shirt, pulling it away from his sweaty neck, feeling like he's breathing through a straw… a very chewed on straw, but a straw.

"Dean..."

Four quick steps from the kitchen counter to the bathroom door; barely avoiding knocking over a coffee cup still full of cold coffee, ignoring Sam; so fucking much ignoring his little brother's worried eyes and soft _calmthefuckdownnow_ voice.

"I think it's hot in here. I'm hot in here. It's really hot in here!"

Six quick steps from the bathroom door to the front door; barely avoiding Sam's outstretched arm, fuck if he'll let his brother touch him… he'd burn alive if he touches anything right now… _burnburnrburn_ … feels like he's being swallowed up by flames already.

"Dean..."

There has got to be hot coal stuck under his skin, there just has to be, because it sure feels like it, or maybe someone injected his veins with molten lava when he wasn't watching, because seriously… he's burning up, he's gonna fry extra crispy for crying out loud.

But no… it's just a stupid thorn a stupid witch placed inside his body somewhere… fuckin' witches, man.

Fuckin' witches.

"'s hot, man… 's freakin' hot in here, man."

His hand is already on the door knob – one twist and he'd be out the door stumbling into fresh, cool air but sure, baby brother has to screw that plan up, because Sam's heavy hand on his shoulder… feels like someone put a hot pan there and spilled some hot oil just because it's apparently cool to be sadistic like that nowadays.

"Fuck!"

He yells, drops his hand away from the door knob, twists away from his brother's _hothothot_ hand, drops down to all four and almost throws up on the awesomely green carpet.

"Okay, okay, man… Dean… 'm sorry, sorry, alright… hey."

Dean doesn't hear a word his brother is saying, because all he can hear is the rush of blood in his ears, all he can feel is the skin on his shoulder still burning where Sam touched him but really… all he's trying to do is swallow down the bile already raising up his throat.

"Get up, man."

_Get up?_

No, he'll not get up because he's nice and cozy here on the floor on all fours, loosing his fingers in the carpet, breathing in the mold and dust, thank you very much.

He's very, very cozy.

Until there's a drop of blood… right there on the carpet. Right fuckin' there; between two yellow triangles that the carpet is full off - what a fucked up design. Yellow triangles on a green carpet. Jesus Christ.

He'd roll his eyes, but that drop of blood keeps on multiplying until there are _onetwothreefour_ five drops already. Six to be exact. Okay, seven. Now stop. Okay eight, but that's all. Screw you, nine.

"Shit, Sam," 's all he can say before he feels Sam's body heat covering his back and wants to scream to his brother to 'get the hell away from me', but he can't say anything, because he's freakin' bleeding right there on the green carpet and blood really doesn't look great on green or yellow… red and green and yellow don't mix well and yeah… he's gonna puke.

"Dean…"

"Sammy…"

And he's scared, he can taste the fear on his tongue… can hear it in the way he says his brother's name. All fear.

"You're bleeding…"

No shit, Sherlock, what gave you that idea?

"Sammy…"

There's this awkward amount of silence there that stretches dangerously into eternity before Sam's nervous: "'s just a nose bleed, 's just that. We can fix that." breaks it.

"Yeah, yeah…"

Yeah, yeah 's just a nose bleed, 's not like his brain is melting or anything, 's not like it ain't cooking itself inside his skull.

Because really… it sure feels like it is.

Today's specialty… cooked brain ala Dean Winchester style.

He gags.

-:-

"Dean, come on now."

His little brother can be such a bitch sometimes, but then sometimes, he's right, which is just so freakin' annoying, but the carpet digging into his palms and knees feels like he's kneeling in acid that's trying to eat away his flesh. And all those drops of blood there… maybe having your head hanging down ain't such a good thing.

"Yeah, yeah… 'm up, 'm up."

He pushes himself up, slowly, breathing in and out, stuffing that bile back into his stomach where it came from and when he's standing on his feet again… he still feels like someone stuck him into an oven and turned it on to full capacity.

He turns around and sees Sam standing by the table, looking kinda pissed off and kinda scared and then maybe kinda amused too and Dean just kinda wants to punch his brother in the face, but that would require contact and that… that would hurt him more then it would hurt Sam.

Fuck.

"Dean…"

And fuck Sam for using that tone of voice on him. He isn't a victim, he isn't a scared, hurt little animal, he isn't a chick scared out of her mind, he isn't… he doesn't deserve Sam talking to him with that tone… that soft 'everything's gonna be okay, Dean' fucked up tone.

Hell no.

But then again… Sam is the only one who can help him now.

If you think something sucks… well, some other thing always comes up and sucks just that tiny little bit more.

He wipes away the blood underneath his nose with his hand, coz yeah… he had a nose bleed or maybe his brain had cooked enough and decided to seep out… who knows… and looks at the back of his hand.

Red.

Bloody.

But it seemed to stop. Hallelujah, praise the miracles.

He breathes in and out. Fast. Trying to calm down, trying to get some air into his lungs, trying to not think about how…

"'s hot in here, Sammy... 's too hot in here, man…"

He doesn't exactly know how those words came out, but by the way his brother looks at him… they were probably said as a plea with the side of some frustrated tears in them.

Crap.

He starts to claw at his T-shirt that is completely soaking wet with his sweat, sticking to his skin and making him feel trapped. Hot. Trapped in a hot, hot place. Freakin' feels like someone pushed him into a volcano and sealed the top of. Freakin' maniacs.

And then… he takes off the T-shirt, saying _screwyoupal_ and throws it into the corner. It's an impulse kinda thing… he's surprised he hadn't thought of it earlier… but then again, he was kinda busy freaking out and bleeding and trying not to puke earlier. So… yeah.

The air in the room hits his skin; drying the sweat on his chest and back, arms and neck… it feels good. Feels amazing, feels almost as good as sex. Oh yeah…

But that feeling lasts for just a little while, because then… he starts to sweat again starts to feel hot again.

Sweat's running down his face, down his neck, his hair's wet as if someone poured a bucked full of water on him – and oh that would feel so awesome right about now - his chest's wet, his jeans are wet, soaked all the way through to his boxers... and he thinks that sweating this much's probably a really, really awesome thing… body trying to cool down or something like that, right?

Yeah… yeah… this is good.

Maybe, maybe some cool water would be even more awesome. Some cool water on his overheated skin… yeah, yeah… that would be so awesome.

"Dean... come on, now..."

He ignores Sam's words and stumbles to the bathroom to stick his head under the cool water running into the sink.

"Fuuuuuck!" but it feels good. Feels so good that it starts to feel kinda… painful.

And then the water stops running and Sam's annoyingly calm voice startles him: "Dean…" makes him raise his head up too soon and he knocks the water pipe with the crown of his head.

It hurts. He'll have a bump in the morning… if he'll survive until then.

"Sam…"

"No, come on… we have to…"

The cold water running down his hair, his neck, cheeks, chest, back, spine is starting to get hot; like someone dumped boiling water on him.

He reaches his hands for the towel that was there on the toilet lid in the morning, he knows it was, because he dropped it there, but isn't there now. He needs to get this water off of him, he needs to get this boiling hot water off of his skin before he gets blisters, before he gets burns of the n-th degree…

And there it is. The towel drying his hair, getting rid of the water from every surface it's on.

"Sam…" he sighs. Doesn't care anymore.

Strong hands start to guide him towards the beds, towel still running wildly all over his hair, head, neck, back.

It's starting to suffocate him. The towel making friction on his overheated skin, friction that hurts, burns, itches…

He starts to fight it off… hands flying wildly in all directions, like he's swatting at a fly and not doing a very good job at it, because hands are still there, the towel is still there…

"Dean!"

He fights harder, because the hands on his biceps squeeze harder… fucking scorching him.

"Okay, okay…"

And then he's left alone to stand in the middle of the green room; towel gone, Sam's hands gone, everything gone. Everything, but the heat underneath his skin.

And then that heat moves, freakin' moves like a snake, slowly travelling up and down his spine to end at his lungs.

"I can't breathe, can't breathe..." he places his right hand on his throat and his left one on his chest, wanting so hard to feel himself breathe, "I need air, I really need some air, dude... there's no air in here."

"Dean, hey, hey, hey... 's okay..."

Sam's walking towards Dean…

"Sam, there's no air in here... can't breathe, I can't..."

"Dean, calm down... Dean, come on... hey, hey... Dean..."

… then after him when his brother successfully avoids him…

"'s hot... I need to... I can't... breathe..."

"Whoah, whoah, hey... Dean... come on, sit down... come on... that's it... just... calm down, all right?"

… then beside his brother…

"No, no... I can't... I can't..."

"Yes you can... come on, just calm down... you know what will happen if you don't, okay! You need to calm yourself down right now..."

… and then he finally meets him in the middle of the room, hands raised up, trying to seem as nonthreatening as possible.

"Yeah, yeah, you're right, I need to... I need air... I can't..."

"Dean, you can... just breathe… alright?"

Dean nods, but doesn't do anything... he's still gulping down air, like it's due to disappear any second.

"That's it, that's it… now listen to me… are you listening to me?"

He nods. Yeah he's listening… listening to his blood boiling in his veins, his skin sizzling, his muscles turning into mush… the sweat burning him everywhere on his body…

"Dean!"

Whoah, Sam has a set of lungs on him.

"Yeah… yeah."

"Listen to me! You're gonna sit your ass down on that bed, so that we can find that thorn, you hear me? And you're not gonna get up from the bed or panic anymore, you got it? You're not really hot, you can breathe, everything you're feeling is not real, 's not true, 's not there, you hear me?"

"Uh… yeah…"

"Good, now sit down, alright? And let's find this damn thorn."

**TBC...**


	2. Locate The Problem

Dean sits down; he more or less collapses down on the bed and loses his ass in the soft mattress that had been giving his back problems for the last three days that they've been stuck in this no name town in this no name motel room; just one of many, he thinks when the urge to puke everything he ate in the last few hours comes to him again.

The motel room that just, argh, sucks ass, man. Green-yellow-gray-blue, blue for crying out loud, walls and carpet and curtains and widows that have seen better days, soft mattresses, soft pillows, water that looks like coffee when you first open the pipe, television that only gets three channels if you're lucky and the wind blows in the right direction.

Just one of many motel rooms… come to think about it… they had worse.

He sighs and lets his head fall between his shoulders, almost hitting his chin on his chest that came out of nowhere so fast, but a sharp pain in the back of his neck stops the collision. He feels a thick drop of sweat rolling down his nose and sees it fall onto the third yellow triangle from his left foot.

He wiggles his toes and the carpet swallows up the drop of sweat.

"Okay, this isn't gonna work," comes Sam's voice from somewhere very, very close to him and then he sees Sam's boots crush the third and forth yellow triangle a little to the left of his right foot and wants to cheer Sam on – kill the fuckers, kill them all – but stays silent, because he doesn't want Sam to know that he's kinda maybe in the process of losing his freakin' mind.

But he has to say something otherwise Sam will bitch and bitch and bitch, so he says the only word that, to his melting brain, seems appropriate: "Whaaaath?"

He feels hot… he feels so hot he's sure he's starting to liquefy for sure now; he's melting and his skin is gonna start to run down his bones any minute now and that is gonna be so awesome, because yeah… just awesome. And then maybe Sam will have mercy on his pride and clean him up from the carpet, or just leave him for the maid to find a puddle on the carpet and…

"Okay, stand up," he's interrupted by his brother's voice, just as he's starting to imagine the maid cleaning up the weird puddle on the carpet and muttering to herself about crazy drunken people leaving crap everywhere. He raises his head up and looks first at Sam's chest and then looks a little bit more up and sees Sam's face that's really serious and very calm.

Get up? He just got down, for crying out loud, and the mattress is already starting to become hot underneath his ass and oh hell yeah, he needs to get up before he gets blisters on his behind and then how will he be able to drive his baby and sit in diners and eat cheap, crappy, too fat food and he'd really go for a burger right about now.

He shakes his head trying to clear his mind, says silently to the room to _fuckingstopspinningbitch_ , and gets up from the bed; feeling like an old man needing a cane to support his aching back… screw the mattresses in this room. Screw them. And screw that witch and screw that thorn and screw his hormones for getting it on with the damned witch. But it was good sex… mmmmh. It was really good, man she knew this trick with her tongue that totally made him…

Sam's fingers wrapped around his biceps… burn.

"Don't touch me, man!"  
He says, screams, yells... whatever, as long as the fingers will go 'way, he'll be the happiest man on the planet. Okay, when the thorn will be out of him, then he'll be the luckiest man on the planet, but let's not be picky.

"Dean, you're not burning up," Sam says calmly, making Dean wanna punch his kid brother on the nose again, because _hellyeahImburningup_ , "Your skin is like… icy cold, man. Okay?"

Dean raises his eyebrows: "No 's not okay, man. Just… shut up, Sam and help me."

The eye roll Sam gives him… well, Dean's just happy that his brother's eyes didn't stay rolled back into the back of his head, because then he'd be screwed to heaven and hell, because he's pretty damn sure, he wouldn't be able to find the thorn on his own. He's athletic, but he's not a freakin' gymnast, he can't bend that far if by any chance the witch thorn-ed him in his ass.

But then again if the witch thorn-ed him somewhere erm… more private, he'll have to get rid of his kid brother and do some quick and highly tactical and strategic escape maneuvers aka running to the bathroom and trying not to stumble his toe, otherwise he'll never hear the end of it.

God…

"'m trying to."

"You're not trying hard enough, dude." He half smiles half groans that sentence out, because the room is spinning and Sam is way to close to him and the carpet is burning his feet and the thought of a thorn being stuck in his dick, is just… crazy, 's what it is. But then again, the witch was crazy too.

Oh dear God.

"Dude, you're not exactly helping here." Sam's all serious now and goddamn his kid brother for jumping from calm to serious to smiling to amused to serious in point one second… it's distracting and it's making his head hurt. Or maybe it's the freakin' heat that's totally messing with his ability to think.

And oh God, now it's spreading, traveling… it's going up his spine again, up to the back of his neck and he swears that he can feel the sweat there actually evaporating into thin air, his skin burning there so badly, he has to touch it… rub it, maybe that will help… but his hand is gripped tight half way up to his nape and _fuckinghell_ …

"What?" he knows he has tears in his eyes, he can feel them clutching at the tips of his eyelashes, but he's just so hot and frustrated and Sam's touching him and his arm feels like it's gonna turn into ash any moment now.

Sam's eyes widen and he releases the hold he has on Dean's arm: "Okay, okay, sorry, I forgot."

He can't breathe. That small touch made the waves of heat travel down to his lungs and his lungs are burning. They are burning and he can't breathe and he can't put the fire in his lungs out, he can't pour water… maybe if he drowns himself… he can't breathe, air is what feeds fire, he can't allow air into his lungs, the fire will spread, will consume him. He has to stop breathing, has to not let air in, has to get water… water… water…

"Dean!"

His eyes are open, that much he knows, because he can see Sam, can see his brother's lips moving, forming his name, can see his eyes go up and down, left and right… can see Sam's arms moving his way…

"Dean, breathe!"

He blinks. Blinks the sweat from his eyes, or tears, or whatever, he blinks and feels his lungs stop burning.

"Water…" he rasps out, holding his right hand over his throat, feeling his Adam apple go up and down so fast he's actually scared for a moment it'll get a mind of its own and jump out of his mouth just to escape his dry throat, because that surely can't be a great place to live in.

And then Sam's gone, the room is spinning, he can breathe, sweet, sweet hot air… but the heat he feels inside his body is just… so intense that he can't even say that it hurts. Heh, it's true what they say; sometimes the pain is so intense, you can't even feel it no more.

It's just there.

"Drink."

He grips the cool glass of water with both hands, feeling like he's three and can't handle to hold a big boy's glass by himself yet.

He gives the empty glass back to his brother and breathes in, enjoying the coolness the water left when it went down his throat.

"Okay, Dean…," fingers snap before his eyes and yup, he wants to punch his brother again for being that annoying, "hey man, focus here."

He tries to focus, but the room is all kinds of blurry and hot and he sees Sam like there's this white, thin mist all around his kid brother.

Just ignore it, maybe it'll go away and focus on Sam.

Focus.

Focus.

And the mist does go away and the heat gets a bit more comfortable inside of him and yeah… he can do this.

"Dean, just… tell me where she touched you, okay."

Dean squirms. Where she touched me? Erm… he licks his lips: "Everywhere, man."

Sam raises his eyebrows up to his hairline.

"Everywhere?"

Dean blushes. Why? He has no idea.

"Everywhere, man as in everywhere." He nudges his head a little to the left and runs his hand across his nape, feeling embarrassed and not really knowing why. 's not like they haven't ever talked about sex before, hell he was the one to give Sam the whole birds and the bees talk, except there were no birds and no bees in that talk. Maybe he scarred the kid for life with that talk, but meh, who cares, because this is not the time, nor the place to think about that.

It must be the thorn screwing with his brain.

"Oh," pause, "oh!"

When Sam's brain finally processes what 'everywhere' means… it's like something snaps inside his brother and he starts to laugh. Out loud. Very, very much… laugh. Dimples and lips stretching to his ears kinda laugh. Tears in his eyes kinda laugh.

"Sam, shut up."

Sam can't stop laughing: "Couldn't keep it in your pants, could ya?"

"Sam, 's not funny, man. 'm freaking boiling here."

"Okay," Sam wheezes in a breath, "okay, yeah…" he wipes a tear from his eye, "'m sorry."

Dean groans; he knew this would happen. Sam will just tease and tease and tease - because well, he learned from the best after all, and Dean would totally tap himself on his shoulder, but that would hurt like hell at the moment - and then he'll not be able to let it go.

He groans again and starts to feel his legs burn and his feet feel like they are already burned to a crisp, but when he looks down, lets Sam laugh it out, he sees his feet a-okay, sees his legs a-okay too. Huh, maybe Sam is right when he says that he's not actually burning up.

But then he sees the blood drops decorating the carpet - and when did that happen - and everything starts to spin and blur and he can't breathe again… it's stuffy in the room… not enough oxygen, not enough cold, too much heat, it's too oppressive, too tight… it feels like the room's trying to squeeze him out of it, the walls closing in, Sam too close to him, the promise of Sam's touch when he'll find the thorn – and he will find it – 's all making Dean choke.

"Dean, hey, hey, hey, come on now. Stop it, alright?"

"Sam," he hisses and bends down, gripping his knees with his sweaty palms, seeing drops of blood forming on the carpet, seemingly out of nowhere, but he knows damn well where they are coming from, "God Jesus help me." He whispers and nearly swallows his amulet when it swings to his open mouth, licking a drop of blood off of his upper lip when he licks his lips.

"Dean, okay, 's gonna be okay. Listen to me. Dean?"

Dean closes his eyes and putts every ounce of trust he possesses into Sam. Every last bit of trust he can find in his body that isn't already totally Sam's, he putts in his brother, because if anyone, his brother will solve this, he'll help him, he'll find that thorn. He will.

"Yeah." He rasps out keeping his eyes closed, because he doesn't wanna see those blood drops multiplying.

"Okay, look, take a step forward, okay. Good, 'm gonna look at your back, alright. Not gonna touch you, okay."

Dean nods and breathes. The room isn't spinning so much if he has his eyes closed, but his head starts to hurt and the heat inside of him starts to feel more alive… more present… more hot.

His mouth's dry. So dry.. so, so dry.

-:-

Sam looks at Dean's back. Close. Every scar, every mole, every pimple, noticing every shudder, every sweat drop that rolls down Dean's spine and gets lost in the waistband of Dean's jeans. Everywhere… he looks everywhere.

There's nothing there... just smooth, sweat covered skin and muscles.

"Sam, is it there?" Dean whispers in hope that the thorn will just jump out to Sam screaming 'here I am!'.

Sam swallows down the answer. _No. No, Dean, there's nothing here._

"Turn around." He whispers, hoping that his tone of voice will make Dean less… jumpy, because his brother being jumpy is bad, bad, bad. Dean jumpy is Dean panicky and Dean panicky is… a bitch to deal with.

Dean spins around, slowly… like every move he makes hurts him. It probably does.

He doesn't look up at his brother's face, just bends down to start at Dean's throat, moving his eyes across Dean's pecs, around his nipples, down his chest, around his belly button, to the sides, across his ribs…

"Sam, find it... come on."

He doesn't… there is nothing there. Nothing that screams ''m the awesome thorn screwing with your brother, mwha ha ha'.

"Take off your jeans."

Dean starts fighting with his boots, that are too stubborn to get off, then his socks have mercy on him and come off peacefully. He unzips and unbuttons his jeans, his fingers slippery from sweat and trembling when he pulls them down to his ankles.

Its awkward standing in the middle of the yellow-green room, with his toes loosing themselves in the yellow triangles on the green carpet decorated with his blood… in only his wet boxers.

Fun times.

"This is fun…"

"Yeah, fun times." Sam says softly and crouches down to start looking at Dean's feet.

-:-

This is so awkward, so awkward, so awkward… and the room is spinning, but thank God the bleeding stopped, but the sweat running down his face is ticklish, and he's starting to see everything – the walls, the pictures, the chairs, the curtain, the window, the trashcan, hell even the coffee maker – as if it's moving. Getting closer to him; they'll get him, they'll crush him, make a _purée_ of human skin, flesh and bones out of him. And won't that be fun for the maid to clean up.

He blinks sweat from his eyes. It's burning him. Everything is burning him, even Sam's eyes so close to his body, Sam's breath hitting his skin when his brother looks at something more closely… everything makes him feel as if wherever Sam looks, heat just… erupts from out of there like a mini volcano.

Everything's alive, coming closer to him, trying to suffocate him, trying to set him on fire; the room's trying to kill him, that's what this is. The room is an assassin who'll kill him, burn him so that no one will recognize him, not even by his teeth, because the heat will be so strong... 's it, isn't it? The room's working for the witch and they'll both murder him, burn him, like his mom burned, like he burned his father… burn, burn, burn.

Fucking thorn.

-:-

"Turn around."

Sam says softly, grabbing Dean's biceps for a split second, just enough to help his brother turn around. He looks over every inch of Dean's body... calves, the back of his knees, thighs, back, nape, scalp... nothing.

Oh wait…

"Dean?"

"You found it?"

Sam looks more closely at something near Dean's ninth rib.

"Just a mole or something, sorry."

Dean wants to collapse.

"Okay, turn back around."

"Sam, you gotta find it. I don't... 's to hot in here."

"We'll find it, I swear. Okay? Just think... Arctica."

"What?"

"Think about cold places."

"Oh god."

But Dean thinks about the time when his Dad helped him make his first snowman... before Sam was born, before everything.

The snow falling, how his dad rolled the little snowballs into big snowballs, how they used a stick for its nose and arms and…

"Found it."

"Where?"

Dean really wants to just collapse and fall asleep… the relief that washes over him with Sam's words nearly makes him lose his footing. Because a) Sam found the thorn and now things will be okey dokey pretty soon and b) thank you very much witch for not putting that thing into Little Dean.

He looks down and sees Sam's finger pointing to a spot on his back. He twists around, trying to see more clearly, but yeah he isn't a freaking gymnast, can't really see all the way down and well, he can't see all that much really, just that Sam is pointing to a spot a little bit away from his spine, on the more meaty part of his back, near the waistband of his boxers.

"Get it out, Sam... just get the little bitch out."

"Okay, okay go lay down on the bed... on your stomach."

"This is gonna suck, huh?" Dean whines.

**TBC...**


	3. Destroy The Problem

Dean steps towards the bed, observing it from the corner of his eyes, because to him it doesn't look like a bed, but more like a medieval torture device where he'll burn alive if a part of it touches his skin. He turns around and wants to say so to his brother, but then he feels a soft, barely there touch on his bare shoulder that nearly makes him fall onto the bed, but he catches himself at the very last moment.

"Dude…"

"Sorry, sorry, just… look, the sooner we do this, the sooner it'll be done."

"What?"

Because really, what kinda logic is that?

"Just lay on the bed, man."

"Alright, alright, stop being a pushy bitch."

"Stop being a sissy jerk."

He rolls his eyes, because yey, awesome comeback there, brother, but rolling his eyes is not his brightest idea, because the room really likes that and it starts to spin wildly throwing him out of his axes and makes him stumble a little. He closes his eyes, grips his head with his left hand, the bed with his right and leans forward, trying to find his centre again, but it's not working… not working at all.

"Dean?"

He hears his brother say from somewhere far, far away and Sam's voice sounds like his brother is stuck in a jar. A jar full of marmalade.

"Mhm…" he wheezes out, just because he feels like he needs to reassure his little brother that he's still alive, although barely.

"You 'kay?"

Hell, no, 'm not okay… damnit Sammy, where have you been for the last hour?

"Fine, 'm fine." He manages to say, because he found his centre, the room ain't spinning anymore and he can relax. Not entirely, because hey, he still has boiling water running through his veins, but at least the room stopped fuckin' with him.

Small miracles are awesome.

He turns around and sits on the bed. Sits down real carefully, first palms down to check the bed's temperature and yes, he means just that, but his palms tell him that it's a-okay, so his behind follows.

He sighs when he settles down on the soft mattress, pats it and looks up at Sam who's standing there watching him like he's a specimen in a test tube locked in a laboratory's closet because he has to be there, but no one wants to touch him. And yes, he has issues but damnit, he's gonna burn alive and this is no time to think otherwise, because he can feel flames spread like a river all over his body… oh man.

"Sam, I think…," he swallows, "we should do this fast. 'm not… 'm not okay." he groans out and it's like he swallowed hot coal because his throat feels so raw and hot.

"Okay, just lay down, alright… come on, I'll be fast."

Are the famous last words Dean hears before he lays down with a sigh, when the coolness of the blanket meets his back and rolls over onto his belly.

He twists his head to his left, sees Sam pick up a lighter, some Whiskey and a knife; a knife that he sharpened just the day before and oh crap, oh crap, that knife is gonna cut into him and it's gonna be sharp and it's gonna hurt and really, why is he panicking, because 's not like he hasn't been cut, sliced, stabbed and shot worse that he'll be right now.

It's the heat talking, that's all there is.

So… this is it… no going back now.

When he feels Sam's hand spreading itself out on his lower back, he rises up on his elbows, looks over his left shoulder and says: "This'll hurt, huh?"

Sam looks at him with that sympathy in his eyes that only his little brother can achieve and breathes out: "I think you should bite the pillow, man."

Dean groans and turns around, hiding his face into the pillow and pulling some of the fabric into his mouth, his tongue gluing itself to the yellow fabric as soon as it hits it.

He feels Sam's hand on his back again... cold palm over hot skin… and it makes him jump because hello, contact, but Sam's: "Relax, man." makes him all but turn into butter that has been left on the sun too long and he liquefies into the bed.

He doesn't see Sam kneeling on the floor by his left side, the wound at his reach. He doesn't see Sam wipe the knife with some Whiskey. He doesn't see Sam heat up knife's blade, the tip of it glowing red when he's done. He doesn't see Sam sticking the tip of the knife just underneath the thorn, cutting around it a little, cutting a little deeper…

Dean doesn't see all that… but he sure feels it.

-:-

He's in Hell, 's what it is. Yes he is, because this can't be anything else but that. Hell. There is no other explanation for all this heat inside of him, all around him.

It's cold heat… the kinda cold heat when you hold a snowball in your hand for way too long and it starts to burn your skin.

Hell.

The sonsofbitches: "… bitch!" came for him and dragged him down to the pit to have some more fun with him, 's what this is. It just has to be.

"Bite the pillow, man. Come on, Dean."

He blinks. He's hot. Burning up. Poisoned. Shit, crap, damnit, stupid!

Hell. Cold, freezing Hell with its cold, freezing heat: "Damnit, son of a bitch!"

"Pillow Dean… bite the pillow."

He groans, but bites the pillow, muffling his next cuss with the smoke smelling fabric.

He can feel Sam's palm on his lower back, his brother's thumb sliding up and down, left and right over his skin, his spine… that should be burning his skin into a crisp, but really… it feels so awesome, because it's the only thing that he can feel down there… everything else is just heat on top of heat on top of scorching heat. Maybe… if he'd really wanted to test it… he thinks that he could fry an egg on his back.

"Breath man, 'm almost done."

Dean breathes out through his nose loudly, because the air gets kinda compressed between his nose and the pillow and it hits his cheeks and he whines, because his breath is hot on his already overheated skin and dear Lord but he's never gonna have sex again... with a witch.

"You're gonna feel just some pressure okay… bite down, we don't need anyone coming to check on us."

Oh yeah, because that would be swell. Some bald, fat dude coming breaking down the door, because he wants to be a hero and all that, and seeing one half naked dude on the bed with another dude's bloody hands gripping his hip and yeah… that… that would be awesome.

So to avoid that kinda awkwardness, he bites the pillow. He grips it with both of his hands, turning his knuckles white, grunts and groans, hearing vaguely how the fabric tears under his blunt nails, bites into it and chokes on a scream that wants to escape his mouth so badly, but can't because his mouth is stuffed full of the cigarette/beer/please let it be sweat smelling pillow.

Fun times.

He thinks for a second, just one fleeting second, that this is how it must feel like, if you are operated on when the anesthesia doesn't kick in. When you are awake and aware but you can't scream or talk or move but you can hear, see, feel everything. Yeah, he reads a lot, so sue him.

He whimpers and digs his fingers deeper into the torn pillow and thinks: 'm never reading anything again.

He concentrates on Sam's palm, on his brother's thumb still sliding up and down his spine, left and right on his lower back and he wants to know how Sam can do two things at the same time, because he really should be concentrating on pulling out that thorn and not… fucking treating him like he's gonna break… but then again, that touch is the only thing keeping him from lashing out, kicking his brother and running away.

Damn it.

-:-

He screams into the pillow and tries to rise up from the bed, but his brother, annoying as ever, puts some pressure on his hand that's lying splayed wide over his back: "Almost have it, Dean." and that makes him scream louder and bite harder, because that touch just becomes too much.

He pants. Gasps for air like he's a fish on dry land and scared that he won't see water ever again.

"Saaaaammmmm…" he whispers when the heat on his side becomes too much, when he can't control himself anymore, when the pressure of that fuckin' thing being pulled out of his body becomes too much and he loses the fight with consciousness.

When Sam pulls out the little black thorn the witch used to poison her victims, Dean is passed out cold.

-:-

Sam smirks watching the bloody thorn in his hand. It's… shaped like an ice cream cone, sharp at the bottom and wide on top. It's brown-ish, maybe more orange-ish, or maybe kinda ochre-ish… it's hard to tell really. Maybe it's green-ish. Whatever it is, it's dangerous and needs to be destroyed.

He gets up and carries it to the bathroom, picks an ashtray on his way, and burns it in the ashtray in the sink.

It's all kinds of anticlimactic really, after all that thorn put his brother through.

There's no smoke, no shooting sparks flying everywhere, no sizzling to be heard; it's just like a piece of paper burning up. But paper at least leaves some ash behind, but this thorn… there's no ash that remains in the ashtray… there's just… nothing that would indicate that there was a bloody, heat inducing thorn burned in the ashtray.

"Huh."

The witch was good, he has to give her that. Leave no evidence behind… good, good.

Because really, what would he do with the ash? Dump it down the drain and hope that the thorn doesn't materialize again and gets stuck in someone else.

Because that? Is really not that farfetched.

He washes the blood from his hands, washes the knife, washes any evidence of blood and panic and fear and shaky hands.

He walks back to his brother and gasps freakin' gasps like he hasn't seen this a million times before… okay a hundred times before… the wound is not there. There is nothing there, but skin and some sweat still lingering on Dean's back. But the blood and the freakin' huge wound… it's all gone.

Oh the witch wasn't good, no, scratch that, the witch was freakin' amazing. Probably one from the old school.

She left nothing behind, no evidence, just nothing, well except for a satisfied man.

And she saved him the trouble of stitching and bandaging his brother up.

She was awesome, really.

He resists running his hand over the spot where just minutes ago he was digging in the knife, cutting into his brother, battling with gauze to stop the bleeding… he thinks that he did enough of touching for one night and covers his brother with a blanket.

He sits down on his own bed, pushes his soap smelling hands through his sweaty hair and breathes out a long breath.

It's gonna be a long night.

"Happy new year, man." He whispers and watches his brother snuggle deeper into the torn pillow.  
  
 **THE END**


End file.
